


Sing It Back To Me

by Paclipas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Friendship/Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, Musicians, Rivalry, Strangers, no names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paclipas/pseuds/Paclipas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one of the countless passers-by paid him any notice, no one cared for the lonely black-haired figure at a random street corner. </p>
<p>Until the man started playing his guitar. </p>
<p>/human!AU/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing It Back To Me

**Author's Note:**

> I tried a new style of writing without using names or dialogue because I have a tendency to overdo it on those. 
> 
> The outcome is more poetic than intended but I'm fairly happy with it. 
> 
> You should listen to your favorite guitar pieces while reading, it sets a nice mood. 
> 
> I don't own supernatural.

The sun had long set, giving way to the fine crescent shape of the moon in the distance while still letting its warmth linger in the darkening streets. People were walking in groups, in pairs or all alone by themselves, their eyes greedily drinking in the signs in front of the many bars and restaurants, devouring the advertised meals in their respective heads even before making the conscious decision to dine at an establishment. The desire to get drunk not only on liquor but also on the atmosphere in which it was served was omnipresent on the cobblestoned walkway. It was the scenery that provided inspiration for one particular man not quite included in the busy crowd.

His blue eyes, though both in color and expression outstanding if closely surveyed, did not stand out in the overflowing sea of faces. No one of the countless passers-by paid him any notice, no one cared for the lonely black-haired figure at a random street corner.

Until the man started playing his guitar.

Softly at first but with quickly building confidence flew the tunes from the instrument, the rhythm feeling not like something forcedly rehearsed but more like second-nature, like something so natural a number of pedestrians even stopped not only to listen but also to ponder over how the night-life had gone without the background music before the first notes had filled the air.

The guitarist smiled to himself as he kept on pulling the strings of his beloved instrument in this one unique combination, this song he had had the courage to compose and share with the public. It may not be much to some people but to him it was a part of his soul and as he let his calloused fingers dance over the metallic strings it felt like he was playing straight from his heart.

Every once in a while someone would pass and stop abruptly, captured by the net spun out of nothing but tunes, the soft notes sticking to their ears and preventing them from leaving the immediate proximity of the soothing music straight away. The musician breathed for these moments. In the few seconds that he and his guitar held their hostage it was like time stopped entirely.

In summer with the air lukewarm even when the sky was already speckled in stars he played every night at this very spot, the intersection where two streets that no one ever bothered to call by their names met becoming his stage for those few hours that he spent there.

He always started out with the same composition, blue eyes falling shut when he released the first tunes into the caressing breeze to fly freely in the ears and hearts of whoever cared to listen. No other musician dared to cross his path, respecting the bubble he built around himself, and thus the music he played was never interrupted until he decided that he'd shared enough and packed up his things and his heart and returned to being the anonymous face in the dark no one properly looked at. He would not have it any other way, or so he told himself in moments of loneliness when not even his guitar would satisfy his craving for companionship.

It all changed, of course, when someone dared to burst the bubble.

On a night like any other, with a buzzing crowd and basses pumping from the near-by clubs, the blue-eyed guitarist rebuilt his cocoon. Fingers caressed worn strings and glided over roughened wood while ears listened patiently for that one off tune to fall back into place. He could observe a small number of familiar faces and almost smiled at the faith and expectancy glimmering in the eyes of the small group around his little island.

A deep breath was inhaled into his lungs as if to breathe in the courage to play his private composition for the umpteenth time. Still he wasn't bored of it, always awaiting the first sound with an eagerness akin to that of the patient crowd.

Only on that night it was not to come.

Unexpectedly his melody got cut off before it had even started when a wave of music came crashing in from a different direction. The style was rough around the edges and incomparable to what the guitarist would play himself. It had no direction, yet it spread out in the street like a wildfire, consuming the souls of whoever was near enough to be sucked into its unholy pit.

And people fell for it, one after another tumbling off the edge and into the unknown. When the music, if he dared to call it that, was further accompanied by a swell of vocals blaring blasphemous lyrics into the previously peaceful night he felt the choking urge to weep for all those ears abused by its hideousness.

What he did not expect was his crowd, the one he himself had nurtured with honey-soft tunes and ever so carefully introduced to the magical world of sound, seemed to rather take a liking to the harsh tunes coming from across the cobblestones. Less and less were focused on him and more and more were almost hypnotically drawn away, not lastly because he, in his utter bewilderment, forgot to play his song altogether and could do nothing but stare over to the ensnaring melody's source himself.

From where he was standing he could catch only a glimpse of his rival, at the succubus who, with his godless songs, was stealing his poor children and those who were still unguided. The man also cradled a guitar to his chest, the instrument displaying its soul-eating properties shamelessly with its rich black color so unlike what he was used to, he thought as he softly ghosted a finger across the instrument he himself held. Matching the black item in his possession, the guitarist on the other side of the street wore a dark leather jacket, his torso clad in a band tee beneath that, and worn biker boots, partly hidden in the legs of torn denims. The hair, from what was visible of it through the thickening crowd, was dirty blond, bordering ashen brown when dipped in the shadows, and his face seemed confident and relaxed.

Across the street blue eyes met with green ones.

Even in the maddening despair over his lost children and forgotten tunes, the blue-eyed guitarist had to give in and admit to himself that his rival was, in contrast to the sounds he spread, beautiful. Defeated by this realization he packed up his beloved instrument and fled the scene unnoticed by everyone except the very reason for his sudden departure whose gaze followed him until the mass of people swallowed him up and erased every trace of his path.

The next evening the world seemed a lot better, he thought as he let his piercing blue eyes scan the street to find that he was the only artist readying himself to play as it very well should be. In the tranquility of his street corner he began to pull the strings and summon the melody, meeting the song like an old friend. Soon he found himself amidst his beloved crowd, sucking up the familiar feeling of being cherished and appreciated while he generously shared his air.

After his initial joy at the familiarity the previous night had so severely lacked he already saw thunder-heavy clouds darkening his own personal horizon as he spotted his leather-jacketed opponent much to his dismay in the very same spot where he had left him.

Soon his instrumental song was, again, swallowed up by the rougher acoustic rock music from the green-eyed man who seemed to sing his respective pieces with a constant smirk glued to his lips. His demeanor paired with his gesticulation was involuntarily even more mesmerizing than the night before and gradually blue-eyes could not be torn away, the soft song making way for the rivaling tunes vis-à-vis.

It went like this for a fair number of weeks, the first half of the evening belonging to the guitarist who had claimed the corner in the first place and his orderly caressing melodies, while the second half was stolen from him by his chaotically captivating counterpart. They had tried to out-play one another, each trying to win over the spectators in their very own style and with their contrasting charms, every melody more emotional and spellbinding than the one before.

The street had never vibrated with more life.

Slowly, so slowly in fact that even the musicians themselves failed to notice at first, their competing hymns joined together to form an entirely new medley, never before heard. The edges the rough strings of the black guitar crowed out were smoothed by the mellow flow of its sand-colored counterpart, the opposites fitting together like two lost pieces of a secret puzzle. Their songs were richer than ever and the people were no longer divided into two halves on either side of the street but gathered in the middle of it, so that every note could be heard.

Even among the enormous pool of faces, there was still always a little path left free so that two very special pairs of eyes could meet and communicate not only over the intersected music but also the emotion so obviously shared. It was a time of quiet bonding, a building of trust no one could really understand and yet many deeply admired.

All too soon the lush and lazy summer air made way for the brisk autumn winds hectically clearing the streets of what remained from the previous season. The change was sudden and the bittersweet pain that came with it unexpected to the pair of lonely guitarists who had until then always parted ways in opposite directions with no acknowledgement of the other's existence apart from court nods of goodbye whenever a night came to its end. Whatever feelings were communicated via song and guitar composition seemed too complicated when formed into the banality that was everyday speech. They had in this summer discovered the door to a kingdom that only existed for them, a kingdom in which blue eyes ruled alongside green ones and the air overflowed with song.

Now it was their choice to keep on singing or close the door for good.

On what both musicians knew, without having ever exchanged more than heavy stares, was the last chance, they shared another song. The number of people had crumbled significantly, dropped down with the temperature, and they were almost in private, singing and playing not for themselves but for the other. Soft notes disappeared into the air, losing volume and determination until even the last of them faded away.

When the song ended, both artists smiled at the beauty they had created, their eyes filled with the sadness of two parents who sent off their child into its own adulthood. Yet theirs was far from a final farewell.

On either side things were packed up, heart-beats quickened and palms became slick with nervous anticipation until both, on a silent sign carried from one side of the street to the other, turned and stepped out of their kingdom and into the world.

For the first time the two kings stood face to face. One had blue eyes and wore a trench coat against the cold, the other had green ones and still sported an unchanged grimy old leather jacket. They both carried a guitar.

And they both walked off into the same direction, side by side.


End file.
